I survive on avoidance. Physical pain
to avoid the mental. Disposable flesh to avoid relationships. Work to avoid
attachment. My club became my empire of avoidance. Inside the ring millions are
won and lost. The fight is confined to breaths, actions and reactions, fists
and pain. Rules don’t exist. Only my opponent exists.
I’d been avoiding my needs for far too
long when Remi stumbles into the Inferno and I’m hungry. The promise of a
submissive with no attachment is far too tempting. I can’t resist him. He was
only supposed to be a distraction, but I know I'll never get over him. There
isn't a chance in this clouded hell.
“It's fucking hell being with you. Has
anyone ever told you that?"
His grin broadened. "The whole
world is hell, doll. At least with me you get a reprieve from the sun."
"So this is hell at night?"
"I like to think of it as Clouded
Hell. One of the rare cool days you've got to hold on to when everything else
won't quit."
He lifted his hand again, and instead
of smacking me like I expected, he cupped my cheek and brought his forehead to
mine. I fucking melted, right there in his inner circle of hell, and I wouldn't
have changed it.
When
not staying up all night writing, J.R. Gray can be found at the gym where it's
half assumed he is a permanent resident to fulfill his self-inflicted
masochism. A dominant and a pilot, Gray finds it hard to be in the passenger
seat of any car. He frequently interrupts real life, including normal sleep
patterns and conversations, to jot down notes or plot bunnies. Commas are the
bane of his existence even though it's been fully acknowledged they are necessary,
they continue to baffle and bewilder. If Gray wasn't writing…well, that's not
possible. The buildup of untold stories would haunt Gray into an early grave,
insanity or both. The idea of haunting has always appealed to him. J.R. Gray is
genderqueer and prefers he/him pronouns.
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